


Fragment

by artilleryflowers



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Beta Wanted, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:51:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artilleryflowers/pseuds/artilleryflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred is temporarily stationed in an empty barrack outside of Stalingrad when he discovers a lone and severely injured soldier. When his companion turns out to be one of the people he hates the most, he can't help but wonder how this war is shaping him. When Alfred and his companion are captured as prisoners of war, and have none but each other, their tense relationship begins to change. For the worse or the better, Alfred has yet to discover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Alfred was rarely in such a compromising situation, but here he found himself stuck with a Russian soldier. He wondered why he'd bothered to stop. The guy was half-dead anyway, and he was really damn heavy. 

Alfred really hated Ludwig right now, but he was not willing to partner up with a Communist nation that he thoroughly hated. The looming nation had decided to poke his head into a war much too big for him, and now Alfred was here helping his soldiers, since Ivan didn't seem to care enough to do it himself. 

Alfred swore at himself for thinking those thoughts.

Ivan was older than Alfred by quite a few years. Ivan had seen much more than Alfred had. It was arrogant of him to think that Ivan couldn't handle the war. 

Christ, the guy shot the entire royal family down in a basement in Siberia without a second thought. It made Alfred's revolution seem like a childish game. It was humiliating.

He was enraged that he was dragging a soldier that wasn't even his, through feet of snow, on a shell-shocked field in a country he hated. He wasn't even supposed to be here. The city was practically lost already; it was a flat field of rubble and bodies, to put it lightly. The soldiers were fighting from underneath piles of mangled metal and chalky concrete. He snorted in annoyance. He wondered why Hitler wanted the city so badly. It wasn't like there was anything to save, and he'd lost so many men it could hardly be called a victory. 

Alfred was only in Stalingrad because his boss had come to negotiate with Stalin about backup troops. He'd been left behind to make sure that "everything would be alright".

"Alright," he mumbled sarcastically. "It's all alright." He heaved the soldier over his shoulder again. Goddamn. 

He got back to the abandoned barracks still grumbling. He was alone, except for the soldier he'd shouldered off onto an empty cot. 

He turned to stare at his companion for a while. The soldier's face was obscured by a blood-stained, frost-covered rag and his helmet was askew. He was dusted in soot and ash. 

Alfred snorted at how utterly thin and ragged the Russian uniforms were. There were holes in the stitching and the three medals that hung from the soldier's chest were hanging on by mere threads.

He decided to take care of the guy, as he had nothing better to do. He'd be sitting in the barracks alone for several days, and Alfred hated being alone. It wasn't that he couldn't be alone, he just didn't like the silence. 

He took off the man's helmet and then unwound the rag from his face. 

"Fuck!" Alfred wished he'd left the soldier out to die. 

The man's sandy eyelashes and pale, blue-flushed cheeks were unmistakable. This wasn't another damn Russian soldier. It wasn't just another Commie. It was Ivan himself, and there was an oozing bullet wound in his shoulder.

"Fuck," Alfred whispered, tucking his knees into his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and rocked back and forth for a few minutes, taking deep lungfuls of air as he did so. 

Alfred ran his fingers through his hair and opened his eyes. He turned him over and examined the wound closer, trying to think of the best way to go about pulling metal from flesh. 

Ivan began to stir, and Alfred leapt back, as if his fingers were bit by ice. He moved as far away from the figure beside him as he could. As Ivan pulled himself up, flinching and shuddering, Alfred wondered if he even knew he was there. Ivan blinked his big, deep eyes for a moment. He looked almost thoughtful, with those clear, bright windows glowing in the dim, oil lamp-lit room.

"Thought you should know, you're shot." Alfred swallowed uncomfortably.

The Russian turned to him, trying desperately to mask the pain elicited from doing so. "I was aware of the fact, comrade." 

His voice was as cold as the biting wind outside the door.

"I am fine."

Alfred didn't even acknowledge the statement. He pulled his canteen from his pocket and put it to his lips. When he shook it, he realized that its contents were frozen solid. He sighed and tossed it away, the hollow metal clang echoing in the empty room. 

Ivan watched the exchange with a slightly amused curiosity. The American was angry, but he could tell from his face that he was close to a breaking point. His bright, obnoxiously hopeful eyes were dead, and his rosy cheeks were gaunt. His glasses were crooked and scratched badly. Ivan smiled slightly. Wartime was the only thing that could stamp out the American's distasteful gaiety.

He lay back on the cot, letting out a half-strangled breath as he did.

The constant hail of bullets in the distance was driving Alfred mad. Though he was extremely hesitant to start a conversation with the man across the room, he finally broke. "You're in terrible shape, man. I think you need a doctor." 

"I am fine. Do not worry." Ivan's slight smile infuriated the young American extremely.

"I'm not worrying. Trust me." Alfred's tone was caustic. 

After a long period of intentionally looking away, he glanced at the large man from the corner of his eye. He was trembling and Alfred could see the slick of sweat shining on his forehead. He realized that if the Russian gave up now, and he let himself fall, the world would be lost. Ludwig would have everything.

"No, you need a doctor now."

Ivan sat up fluidly, baring his teeth. "I said I am fine. Do not ask me again. And if you tell anyone of this, you will be the second round of injuries they attend to. Do you understand, comrade?"

Alfred nodded and pretended that he wasn't scared shitless by the massive nation's quiet threat. Ivan did not lay back down, but looked out onto the battlefield, or what was left of it, through a crack in the wall.

Alfred could see the red blooming under Ivan's uniform, and a twinge of worry struck him, much to his annoyance. 

"I won't call anyone, but you need to pull that bullet out."

He felt uncertainty claw into his throat, and tear out his vocal cords, as Ivan turned to glare. 

"I-If you're not gonna do it, I w-will."

"Do not touch me," the pale-faced nation growled. "I will break your hands."

Ivan looked down at his collarbone, and stared for a moment. He'd suffered much worse before. He didn't want to acknowledge the fact that Alfred was right in saying that the bullet had to be removed eventually. He knew that in his current weakened state, he would never be able to fight off the Germans. He knew that he was already crumbling. He lay back down again. 

"It will stay. It will be okay," he said indifferently. He continued to watch the shadows fighting in the distance, through the same white crack in the wall.

Alfred shook his head violently and reached for his knife. He pulled it from the inside of his uniform quietly, carefully padding over to the opposing cot. He clamped down on Ivan's shoulder and forced him down. Ivan let out a gasp of pain, choking on his own breath. Alfred pushed his blade gently into his shoulder. Ivan's chest was heaving, though no air entered his mouth. He inhaled sharply as Alfred carved his way to the shard of metal, the dull blade drawing out the process far longer than it should have. Alfred blanched as the enormous bloody swath grew larger and wetter, glimmering in the yellow lamplight. 

He eventually eased it out, and the bullet clinked delicately as it bounced onto the floor.  


He looked at Ivan's face, and he could see the anger bubbling there, subtle and dark. Alfred could see the Russian's shoulders trembling. His charcoal-dusted hair fell in front of his eyes, obscuring the heavy bags and the angry red cut on his brow. Alfred felt his gut clench as Ivan pushed himself up. However, he gave in, his shoulders slumping and his back caving. He fell back against the wall, and slumped onto the cot, blood squelching against the metal. His eyes dripped shut slowly, even though Alfred could see he was obviously trying to fight it. Ivan's lips parted slightly in a drowsy, "Did not know you cared so much, comrade."

Alfred felt like punching him. He ran his fingers through his hair and stood up. He began to pace, grinding his teeth. 

"I was always stronger than you," he seethed, hunching his shoulders. "Took one bullet for you to fall. That's a real shame."

Alfred stopped his pacing, the sound of his own footsteps crawling too far into his ears. He glanced over at the unconscious soldier, and decided to ignore the fact that he was the epitome of everything he hated. He was a hero, and heroes helped others.

"Even the bad guys," he muttered. _Even though Ivan isn't a bad guy. You know damn well who it is this time, and it's not him._

Alfred's own thoughts betrayed him.

As if to counter his own judgement, he repeated himself. "Even the bad guys."

He went over to his own duffel bag and pulled a spare shirt from it. It was the last one he had that wasn't either threadbare, or bloodied beyond use. He glanced at it longingly before snatching the half-empty bottle of whiskey from under his own bunk. He doused the ragged shirt in the honey-colored liquid, nearly flinching. He sat on the edge of Ivan's cot, his back rigid and hands stiff. He gently wiped away the blood still trickling from his brow, and wiped away some of the ash from his cheeks. He noticed how heated Ivan's face had become since he dragged him in. He shrugged it off. It was probably his way of counteracting the constant subzero temperatures. 

He tugged the other man's gloves off. He noticed how surprisingly soft and clean they were. Clean in one sense.

He took off the mottled uniform, watching as goosebumps rose on Ivan's stark-white arms. He cleaned some smaller cuts before reaching for his knife again. He cut away the blood-steeped fabric around the bullet wound, blinking rapidly to keep his focus.

The deep dark wound swelled with fresh, crimson blood, and Alfred pressed the shirt hard to it. He glanced at the man’s soft, young face again and felt his own soften. He shook his head, gritted his teeth, and pressed harder on the wound, as if to make it bleed more. 

Ivan felt fingers running along his skin, working, and he jerked up. He slammed his hands into Alfred’s chest and sent him flying off the end of the cot. 

Ivan was trembling. Alfred straightened his glasses and sat up on his haunches carefully. He reached out his hand slowly, like one would do to a frightened child. 

“Hey man, calm down.” 

Ivan stared at Alfred’s hand for a moment, listening to nothing but their quiet breaths. He squeezed his eyes shut until he saw patterns. Alfred brushed his pants off and stood up.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” The syllables were broken. The sentence was cut out from one book and pasted in another. It didn’t fit in his mouth the way he wanted it to.

Ivan looked at Alfred’s hands and reached out for them. Alfred folded his hands behind his back before the other soldier could get anywhere near them. He felt a corrosive pain on his palms and hissed.

“Your hands are hurt.”

Alfred warily acknowledged the Russian, nodding slightly. He glanced at his hands and saw the dewy, sticky redness where skin once was. Ivan brushed his fingers along the edges of the strawberry scrapes and Alfred sucked in a breath. Ivan pulled away hastily.

“I am so sorry. I did not mean any harm.”

Alfred looked back at the Russian, and saw the distress playing across his features. 

“It’s okay, it doesn’t hurt too bad anyways.” Alfred offered a reassuring smile. “Nothing a little bandage can’t fix anyways.”

Ivan glanced up through his eyelashes and cocked his head. “I will do that. You fix my wounds, I fix yours.”

“Nah, I’ve got this.” The young American turned back to his bag and pulled out a roll of white cloth. He waved it in the air. “Real handy stuff.”

Ivan nodded slowly. “What is it?”

“Gauze. Doesn’t your army use it? It’s basic stuff.” 

Ivan blushed at Alfred’s statement. He felt stupid for not knowing this simple information.

“Here, you need it after me anyways. You can just keep it when I’m done.” 

Alfred tore the edge of his wrappings away with his teeth before tossing the roll it to Ivan. He reached to catch it, but his shoulder pained him so much that he couldn’t reach for it. He watched as it rolled across the floor of the barrack, unrolling messily. 

Alfred snorted and snagged the roll off the floor.

Ivan shook his head, but didn’t say anything. Alfred sat down beside Ivan. “Turn around.”

Ivan complied uneasily, and he felt those warm hands against his skin once again. They were rough and wrapped his shoulder too tightly. He bit his tongue. 

“T-Thank you, comrade.”

Alfred didn’t respond, only rolled his eyes. 

Ivan smiled to himself and pulled the tattered sheets around his shoulders. He lay back against the cold bunk. Now was time for sleep.

Alfred pulled his extra socks on and lay back on his own cot. He stared at the ceiling for a few hours, his mind turning like the gears in his watch. He sat up after a while, and dropped his hands in his lap. He glanced over at the thinly covered Russian soldier and stood up. He needed to check his bandages, since no one else would. He didn’t want to have that kind of blood on his hands if Ivan was seriously injured. 

He pulled the sheets down from Ivan’s shuddering shoulders and pressed lightly around the bandage. It wasn’t quite soaked through, but it would need to be changed soon anyway. He wedged himself between Ivan and the wall before carefully unwinding the strip of gauze. He dabbed some more whiskey along the edges of the wound and he felt Ivan tense. 

“You’re awake.”

“I am now.”

“You could have said something earlier.”

“No use for words Alfred. That is how we are different. I talk only when things need to be said.”

“That was a damn useless thing to say.”

The Russian nodded and lay his head back down on his other arm, staring at the wall. Alfred brushed his fingers across Ivan’s forehead, to check and see if his fever had gone down. 

He only seemed to be getting warmer. Alfred wiped his hands on his shirt and edged himself out of his position. 

“You doin’ alright without a jacket?” he asked. “It’s below zero.”

“It is normal for me. But I suppose I am a little cold,” Ivan mumbled, bringing the sheets over himself again. “I will get a jacket in the morning.” He seemed to drift off in a matter of minutes. 

It took Alfred hours sometimes, thinking about all of the world and the past. He envied the Russian’s ability to forget it. 

He watched the slow rise and fall of Ivan’s chest for a while, a metronome and a clock and a distraction. His pink scarf tumbled from round his neck to pool on the ground beside the cot.

Alfred had always been curious about that scarf. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed it out on the battlefield. He was tempted to unwind it, but Ivan was obviously a light sleeper, and he didn’t feel like hurting his hands anymore than he had already. 

_Those scrapes weren’t your doing. It’s the guy who can’t tolerate any kind of people who did that to you._

But Alfred knew they were his fault. He should have moved when he heard Ivan waking up. 

_But no._

Yes.

He heard slurred whispers, and he watched as Ivan tossed violently. There were soft Russian words mixed in with the fearful sounds and quiet whimpers. 

“Hey!” Alfred barked. Ivan jerked up, eyes flooded and face paler than it should have been. 

“I apologize, I do not mean to disturb you.”

Alfred was quiet for a moment before asking, “You okay?”

Ivan nodded. “I am fine.”

Alfred narrowed his eyes. “No you’re not.”

Ivan didn’t say anything.

“What the hell is going through your head?” Alfred asked quietly. His razor words cut the corners of Ivan’s mouth and more words spilled out. 

“You know so little. For one so young-”

“I’m not young anymore!” Alfred snapped. 

Ivan smiled that goddamn smile again, but his eyes were different. “But you are still ignorant. Protect yourself, promise me.”

Alfred furrowed his brow. “I’m fine.”

“Promise me.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“I do not.”

“Then stop insisting I promise you something that doesn’t even matter.”

“I do not want you to be like me. I do not want you to be full of nightmares. What do you dream of?”

Alfred frowned. This was too much information to process. “I-I dream about when I was younger. When I was really strong.”

Ivan laughed. It was a clear and happy sound, like the tolling of bells. “You are so naive.”

“Well what do you dream about?” Alfred growled. 

The smile on Ivan’s face melted. “I dream of food for my people. I dream of blue skies, and my family. I dream of warmth.”

Alfred felt selfish.

“Your people have always loved you. They have always thought of you as ‘America the Strong’-”

“Brave,” Alfred corrected instinctively, and then bit his tongue in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“America the Brave,” Ivan mused. He let out a soft sigh and a condescendingly breathy chuckle. “Your people think of you well. They love you. They speak so well of you. My people, they have never loved me-”

“Don’t say that. I’m sure-”

“No!” Ivan shouted. His lips curled back in disdain. “They have never loved me. You do not know! You think you understand so much, but you do not! You are a privileged and unlearned child!”

Alfred felt like he’d been punched. He clenched his teeth. “At least I don’t slaughter my own damn people. I don’t murder and kill and starve my own people! My people love me for a reason, and you’re right! They’ll never love you!”

At this, Ivan faltered. He opened his mouth unsurely, but closed it again. He lay back down. He closed his eyes and buried his nose in the crook of his arm. He mumbled something, but Alfred didn’t catch it. 

“What did you say, you Commie bastard?” Alfred snarled. “Better not have been-”

“I said, ‘I would not love me either’,” Ivan answered softly, lifting his head slightly.

Alfred’s mouth dropped open to yell, but the distant ratatatatat of machine guns was the only sound to be heard. This day had shoved more words back into his throat than any other day in his life before. He stood there for a while, waiting to settle down. He couldn’t break his gaze from Ivan, his eyes glazed over and his thoughts overriding his senses. He blinked quickly and shook his head. 

“Damn right.”

He edged his way over to Ivan and sat down on the cot beside him. Ivan didn’t stir so Alfred kept talking. 

“You know, we used to be friends. You know? We fought together man, you and I, side by side. We won things.” A smile cracked his tense features, and he felt natural again. He closed his eyes. “Those were good times. Before this whole damn war.”

Ivan shifted and Alfred froze. 

It was easy talking to someone who didn’t listen. That’s why Alfred talked as often as he did. But Ivan always listened. He didn’t just hear Alfred’s idiotic ramblings. It made the American uneasy, even though it was the only thing he’d ever wanted.

Ivan mumbled something sleepily and rolled over again, tangling his arms in the sheets. Alfred watched quietly, holding his breath. When Ivan seemed to fully settle into sleep again, Alfred eyed the scarf wrapped loosely around his neck.

With cautious fingers, he tugged on the edge of it. Before the light hit Ivan’s skin, Alfred felt a sharp pain around his wrist. He knew that he’d made a severe mistake. Ivan squeezed harder, and Alfred swore his wrist popped. He felt bones grating against one another. 

“Do not touch things that do not belong to you,” Ivan growled. He released Alfred’s wrist delicately before burying his face in his arms again without another word. Alfred stood up and made his way to his own cot, unsure of why he’d been anywhere near the Russian in the first place. Was he looking for a listener? Was he looking for a friend?

He shook his head so violently his neck loosened, a hot warmth filling the muscle there, melding with the pain of the initial jerk.

He glanced back at the white figure against the opposing wall, his face riddled with shame.

“Sorry.”

Alfred heard a long breath cut the soft drone of planes in two.

The planes.

Alfred looked at Ivan. “Oh God.”

Ivan didn’t stir. 

“Wake up you bastard!” Alfred yelled, hysteria edging into his voice. “Christ get up!”

Suddenly, Ivan let out a scream so loud he felt as if he’d swallowed a knife. His knees jerked and his arms tensed. He felt searing hot tears and he heard nothing. Red was all he saw. Red red red.

Alfred clapped his hands over his ears. All he heard was an enormous crashing, but it never ended. He stumbled his way over to Ivan, the building and his legs quivering. He dropped to his knees at Ivan’s bedside. “Come on, we have to go!” 

Ivan’s eyes were stapled open, and his breaths caught in his throat before they could reach his lungs. The building gave one single whine before it caved in, the barraging too much to bear. Alfred threw himself over the Russian, and squeezed his eyes shut. Black swelled over black in an angry sea behind his eyelids, and he struggled to stay awake. 

“God,” he whispered. “God.”

Another piercing shriek split Alfred's head in two and an enormous explosion rang in his ears. The remaining metal holding up the roof gave way and the rest of the building collapsed, burying Alfred in brick and warped tarnish. His head was swimming and he could hardly hold it up. He let the blue-black wash over his thoughts, a soft release, quiet and welcome. Among his last half-lucid thoughts, he wondered if he'd make it out alive.


	2. Chapter 2

When Alfred woke up, he could barely lift his leaden head. For a long time he sat there, wondering if there was anything to be heard, or if he had gone deaf. Eventually, he forced his eyes open, squinting at the blinding light. He reached up to his dusty fragmented glasses and wiped the cinders away. The ashes were soft on his fingertips, like powdered sugar. He saw the shell-shocked remnants of the barracks, and watched as the snow and embers drifted quietly through the crumbling roof. He took a deep breath, thankful that there were no broken ribs. He shifted rocks off of his feet, and tugged his jacket out from under a macerated beam. Everything ached, a heady pain pushing through every fibril of his being. He groaned as he pushed himself up. He licked his lips and tasted copper blood. He’d grown accustomed to the potent taste of it, but he hated it all the same. 

He scanned the room for any indication of Ivan’s presence, however he found that with his broken glasses, he could hardly see anything. He narrowed his eyes, a poor attempt at enhancing his vision, but eventually he discerned something that resembled a boot. He edged his way over to it, careful of skewed metal and heavy concrete. He pulled a large chunk of cinderblock off of what he decided was the chest area. 

He pulled more and more hunks of rock off of Ivan, suddenly in a frenzy of fear and half-hope. 

He uncovered Ivan’s face, and swore. 

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, reaching up to Ivan’s face, tentatively touching it. Blood trickled from the corner of his slightly ajar mouth and from his nose. Lacerations covered his cheeks and a deep cut decorated his temple. Alfred picked him up and dragged his legs out from under the rubble. He lay him down on a somewhat flat section of ground and tugged his scarf off, his fingers searching for a pulse.

His breath caught in his throat. Broad, deep scars graced his neck. Alfred traced one gently, and let out a long, weighted sigh. He pressed his fingers in, and felt a slow beat. He let out a relieved laugh, and let his head fall onto Ivan’s chest, tears welling in his eyes. He pushed himself up, resting his head in his hands, thinking of how close to death they’d been. 

“You strong son of a bitch,” he mumbled, wiping his nose with his sleeve. He pulled himself to his feet, and went over to the radio station, praying to God that it still functioned. It seemed intact to some degree, so he left a rather lengthy message in rather broken Russian. “This is Lieutenant Alfred F. Jones reporting back to base. Barrack Forty-Nine has been destroyed. General Ivan Braginski has been severely wounded. We're headed towards Kiev. Send no reinforcements through the southern front.”

He released the receiving button after a moment of heavy silence, and turned back to Ivan. He knelt down and rewound his scarf as carefully as he could. He looked everywhere for another jacket, but found that the shelves where he could have found anything usable had been trapped behind a metal sheet. He took his gloves off and put them on Ivan’s hands before heaving him over his shoulder. 

“S’gonna be a long walk, buddy, you better wake up soon,” he grunted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to correct the German in this chapter; I haven't a proper reference source. Thank you so much, lovely readers!

A hail of bullets assaulted Alfred suddenly, and he dropped to his knees, throwing Ivan into the snow beneath him.

He pushed his face in the frosted earth and took slow shallow breaths, waiting for the volley to end. The cold of the ice bit his nose.

Finally, the deafening onslaught ended, and Alfred let out a long breath of relief. 

He glanced over at Ivan before pushing himself off of his knees. He felt a thoughtless weight press against his back and he froze. 

“Betrachten Sie diesen verfluchten Amerikaner! Laufen mit dem Ruskis!” 

Alfred closed his eyes, bracing himself possible execution. He blinked rapidly, attempting to rationalize his breaths. He felt tears well up in his eyes as he swallowed his scream. 

“Bewegen Sie sich nicht,” the anonymous man shouted. He saw other green-clad figures surround them. They chuckled and called to one another like crows.

Alfred nodded, and trained his eyes on Ivan.

“American, ja?” He felt the cold muzzle of the gun brush his cheek. 

He nodded. 

“Pretty uniform,” another one jeered. “Warm in cold, ja?”

He bit his lip and nodded again. 

The soldier behind him shoved the barrel of his gun into Alfred’s neck. “Up.”

He did as he was told. The man spun him around to face him and grabbed a hold of his lapels.

“Who is Russian?” The soldier cocked his head in Ivan’s direction. 

“He’s just some soldier. I-I saw him on the way into the city. D-Don’t even know his name.” Alfred swallowed hard.

The German squinted at him. He turned to his men, “Bereiten Sie vor sich zu schießen.”

Alfred heard the cocking of guns. “Wait, wait!” 

The soldier smiled at him with crooked teeth. Alfred noticed the stark white SS symbol on his collar. “Ja?”

“He is a general. Kill him if that’s not important to you. I don’t care. He ain’t my soldier.” Alfred stared the man dead in the eye. “Kill him. See what you miss.”

“Many generals we capture.” The man’s smile ebbed slightly. “Why special?”

“He knows General Beilschimdt.”

The man arched his eyebrow and turned to another officer. He mumbled something that Alfred didn’t catch. He turned back to Alfred and jerked his thumb back towards the hazy city. “We go back to base now. German base. You tell us American plan. Russian wait for Generaloberst Beilschmidt.”

Alfred nodded and licked the salty sweat from his upper lip. He watched the Germans grab Ivan’s shoulders roughly and drag him in front of the rest. They marched further into the city confidently, but Alfred noticed their footsteps became softer as they neared the square. Eventually they weaved in and out of alleyways, arms tense and guns aimed every which way. Alfred smiled at their fear. Distant gunshots startled them. They neared Univermag, and Alfred felt bullets whiz by loudly. Two of the Germans surrounding Ivan fell, and they all sprinted for the large department store. 

“Gottfluch es aller!” the SS officer shouted as they slammed the doors closed.

The soldiers carrying Ivan threw him down, shouting, “Dass fetter Sohn von a Weibchen erhielt zwei Männer beendet!” They kicked him in the ribs roughly, but he still did not wake. 

Alfred clenched his fists. Even if he hated Ivan, he felt sick watching the enemy brutalize him. 

“Genug!” the SS officer shouted. They backed away and stood at attention. “Nehmen Sie sie zu den Holdingzellen herunter. Die unbesetzten.”

They nodded shortly and retrieved Ivan from the floor. Two other officers grabbed Alfred’s shoulders and shoved him forward. “What the-”

“Geschlossen ihm,” the German hissed, cuffing him in the side. Alfred took a shaky breath, swallowed his bitter bile, and forced his feet to move. 

He tried to jerk out of their grip, but they only punched him harder. He could hardly stand by the time they arrived at what Alfred assumed to be his holding cell.

It was a simple room, likely previously used as a storage room, with one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling and a concrete floor.

“Very free here! Like in America!” one of the soldiers taunted. Ivan’s sentries kicked him down into the room beside Alfred. They slammed the door after them and Alfred heard the rusty turn of a key. He leapt to his feet and slammed his shoulders against the door. 

He screamed and screamed but every word that left his lips was fruitless and only left his throat raw. He slumped against the wall, burying his face in his hands. He felt like crying but he knew that it wouldn’t be brave. He swallowed the lump in his throat and squeezed his eyes shut, a futile attempt at coercing his tears back into his eyes. 

He wiped his cheeks and what remained of his glasses before turning his gaze on Ivan. Ivan lay in a rather uncomfortable-looking position, blood oozing from every wound on his person. 

Alfred scampered over to his side, careful to even touch him. 

“Goddamn you got me into this mess,” he grumbled. He lay Ivan out in a more comfortable position before moving to wipe the blood off of his face. “If you hadn’t been such an idiot and gotten yourself hurt I’d have gotten out of Russia weeks ago.”

Alfred knew it was wrong to push the blame on Ivan, but he had to push it on someone. He wasn’t about to take it.

He felt the scowl on his face ease as he carefully cleaned Ivan’s cuts with his jacket sleeves. He moved onto the bullet wound with gentle strokes, careful not to hurt Ivan any more than he already was. 

When he figured he’d done a satisfactory job, he took his jacket off and draped it around Ivan’s bare shoulders. He took his gloves back and put them on, his hands still halfway numb from the bite of winter. 

He propped Ivan up against the wall and did the same, closing his eyes and hoping for sleep. Half of him wanted it to be a dream, the other half believed it truly was. He crossed his arms and took a deep breath. Morning would come and everything would be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betrachten Sie diesen verfluchten Amerikaner! Laufen mit dem Ruskis! - Look at this damn American! Running with the Ruskis!
> 
> Bewegen Sie sich nicht - Do not move.
> 
> Bereiten Sie vor sich zu schießen. - Prepare to shoot.
> 
> Generaloberst - General
> 
> Gottfluch es aller! - God damn it all!
> 
> Dass fetter Sohn von a Weibchen erhielt zwei Männer beendet! - That fat son of a bitch got two men killed!
> 
> Genug! Nehmen Sie sie zu den Holdingzellen herunter. Die unbesetzten - Enough!Take them down to the holding cells. The unoccupied ones. 
> 
> Geschlossen ihm - Shut it


	4. Chapter 4

When Alfred stirred from his light and uncomfortable sleep, he was alone. He rubbed his eyes pretending that Ivan would be there after he did. However, when he drew his hands away, there was no one there but his shadow. 

He took a few deep breaths and steeled his nerves. He was a prisoner now, and the realization made his chest hurt.

After what seemed like hours, he heard shouting and scuffling a few rooms over. It neared and then the door was kicked open with a loud bang. 

After a heavy push, Ivan stumbled forward before dropping to his knees. Both of his eyes were black and he had burn marks on his wrist. When the door shut once again, Alfred found it harder to breathe.

“Alfred?” Ivan mumbled hoarsely. “You are alive.”

“Ivan!” Alfred beamed, unable to contain his relief. He cleared his throat and darkened his tone. “You’re alright.”

Ivan offered him a small smile. “I am very glad to see you.”

Alfred opened his mouth to reply, but nothing he could have said would have been enough. He nodded in response and leaned against the wall again.

He looked Ivan over, examining for more wounds. “What the hell happened to you?”

“They asked me about the plan.” Ivan reached up to his face and gingerly touched his bruises. “When I told them I would not tell them, they became very, very angry. But they cannot just think that bruises and burns will make me give up. I am very strong.”

“They burned you?” Alfred asked, trying to hide his panic with a feeble attempt to sound dumbfounded.

Ivan nodded. “It is nothing very bad.”

Alfred ran a hand through his hair and stared at the wall for a long time, wondering why he hadn’t gone any other way. He could have gone true west. He could have tried to get out, but as luck and his poor navigational skills would have it, he was now trapped in some dank room that smelled like piss and mildew.

Ivan edged over to him and offered him another small smile. “It will be okay, comrade. We will not be here very long. My men will find us.”

“What about until then?” Alfred demanded. Ivan’s face loosened and he felt a slight frown materialize on his face. 

“We will wait. They cannot kill us. We know too much,” he said reassuringly. 

“So we’ll let them beat us to a pulp every day until they come?” The fear and pain in the voice of the young American hurt Ivan more than any beating had, as much as he hated to admit it. 

He reached over to Alfred and to his surprise, Alfred didn’t try to swing at him. He tentatively patted Alfred’s shoulder. “It will be okay.”

“You’re lying,” Alfred whimpered. “I didn’t sign up for this war to die in a basement in goddamn Russia!” Ivan drew away, and cast his gaze downward. 

“I am sorry,” he mumbled. 

Alfred felt a soft weight on his back and he looked up. He felt the familiar warmth of his army jacket around his shoulders again and let out a long sigh. 

He glanced over at Ivan, who had moved to the opposite corner of the room, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head leaning against the wall. 

Ivan forgot that Alfred was only a child. He forgot that Alfred was young and still immature. He forgot that Alfred had not experienced the same degree of horror that he had before. He closed his eyes and forced a breath between his teeth.“I am sorry. You should not be here, Америка.”

Alfred flinched. He never noticed how Ivan’s accent drenched his syllables until he’d said his name. How they weighed them down and drowned them and mottled them.

Matches his personality, Alfred thought bitterly.

Ivan felt the cold his surroundings burrow into his exposed skin and he shuddered. Blame crept up into his chest and slithered up his neck into his throat. He closed his eyes and pressed his bruised eye against the wall in hopes the chill would soothe it. Anything to dull the aching pain he refused to acknowledge fully, and to numb the guilt that so rarely seethed in his skull.

Alfred peered at him for a moment, before asking, “Want a light?”

Ivan turned his head, a look of incredulity on his face. “What are you asking?”

“Cigarette.” Alfred’s obviously annoyed intonation made Ivan want to disappear. He wanted to slit his cheeks and let the irritating disconcerted blush bleed out all over the dirty floor. 

“Where did you get them?” he asked, cocking his head. He was very much inclined to stick one between his teeth and pull on it until his lungs felt dead. He’d never fancied the taste of smoke but now it seemed alluring. 

“Had ‘em since Dunkirk.” Alfred snorted. He pulled the crumpled box from the inside of his jacket. “Thought you knew I had ‘em.”

Ivan shook his head. 

Alfred’s ran his fingers along the papery creases. “Ever had a Lucky?” 

“I never really liked cigarettes so I do not know. I think today I am fond of them.”

Ivan was pleased when Alfred cracked a smile. He plucked a cigarette from the red-circled box and held it out. Ivan scooted over and took it between his forefinger and his thumb gently. Alfred pulled a Zippo out and lit the end of his before he turned the flame to Ivan’s. 

They dragged on their cigarettes in a long, easy silence, feeling the tension in their shoulders dissipate. 

“Goddamn I hate these things,” Alfred chuckled. “They taste like shit.”

Ivan nodded. “But they settle you down.”

Alfred drew on the end of his thoughtfully. He nodded. “I guess you’re right.”

They were shrouded in exhaled cigarette smoke and a comfortable quiet that neither soldier was willing to break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Lenaholmes101, for beta-reading! It means so much~

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to have a beta-reader for this story. I would cry tears of joy, I swear. Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
